Shuffle

[Stewart]

I've been playing with a short story idea for a while now and I just wanted to produce this tiny snippet of it (currently rewriting from something I wrote in 1998) to see what you think - nothing's resolved, the story doesn't really start, but I'm interested more in initial opinion (does it grab you from the start?) and the actual prose.

Thanks.

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Shuffle...shuffle...shuffle...

…and it was the first time I had become aware of the sound, alert to the subtle crunch of my feet crossing a dust-cracked floor. A comforting whisper and it had soothed my senses, massaged all thoughts from my mind, although something in the ether felt different, a slight shift being enough to rouse me into acknowledging that something was wrong. I opened my eyes, drank in the underwhelming void before me, and closed them again.

Confused, still dreamy, and still marching to the pacific scuffle of my feet I tried to imagine shapes to suppose an illusory location, an imagined path to follow leading to a definite destination. Inspiration, however, could only achieve crude spots of light and half-form impressions that flickered and fizzed out while never being of use.

There was no need, I found, for such chimæras as further revelations sought my attention like a distinct sound rising from a harmony. I was not alone in the void as I became aware of others, before me and behind, their soft steps accompanying my own. The person behind found guidance from my shoulders as I, in turn, was steered by the person upon whose body I was helplessly clasped. And slowly, uncertainly, carried only by the rhythm of our hesitant steps, we shuffled through the nothingness.

But it wasn’t nothing per se! How could it be if our feet had a base?

We continued; an unerring circle through the darkness. Time, in its constant measure, was deceptive. I counted seconds - two, three, and four - but there was something, an intangible doubt that tugged on each thought, the notion of time turning in on itself, confusing eternities and moments and all degrees between, so that I could not say with any certainty that I had been tallying seconds, minutes, or the deceptive passing of hours.

“Hello?” To nobody in particular. A wistful cry for comfort. I had a voice!

[John Self]

I actually find it quite hard to comment on this out of context, Blixa. It's intriguing but at the same time hard to get a grip on. Largely this is because of the lack of certainties in the prose - no names, places, objects or specific actions - which sense of displacement is enhanced by the language used: something in the ether felt different ... a slight shift ... something was wrong ... confused, still dreamy ... an illusory location, an imagined path ... half-form impressions ... and so on. I realise that this is deliberate, and that the ending of the section you've posted suggests that things are about to become clearer, but I found it quite frustrating in itself out of context. I wouldn't want it to carry on in this vein for much longer, otherwise the reader could find his mind drifting.

On the other hand it has an atmospheric quality and the few concrete details that start to appear toward the end make me want to know what is actually happening.

Sorry I can't be more helpful...

[Stewart]

On the other hand it has an atmospheric quality and the few concrete details that start to appear toward the end make me want to know what is actually happening.

Sorry I can't be more helpful...

Thanks John. I just thought that some of the sentences may overstay their welcome in my bid to create a surreal atmostphere. I'll try to tighten up certain bits too...wouldn't want the reader drifting off. Saying that Marquez's The Ghost Ship was one sentence that lasted ten pages. :shock:

The darkness doesn't last for long, there's a definite fiat lux moment to come. :)

[Johnny-Ace]

Yoiks! That John Self is as sharp as a bag of tacks and not to be trifled with.

I, Blixa, being devoid of any sense of decorum, have taken gross liberties with your work as any comment/critique I might would be bollocks. What I’ve done to your piece (and tell me to fuck off here) is used my own ‘slash and burn’ policy which I oft apply to my own efforts. This usually proves so successful that I end up with a blank page again.

PS – Anything I’ve ADDED, you should treat with utter contempt and all I can offer in my own defence is that I wish that I had some bugger to scrutinise my own works thus.

John-Boy
Fools and children should never see unfinished work.




Shuffle...shuffle...shuffle...

I had become aware of the sound, a comforting whisper of my feet on a floor, although something felt different; a shift, acknowledgement that something was wrong. I opened my eyes to the void before me, and closed them again.

Still marching, I tried imagining shapes, paths to follow, definite destinations but achieving only impressions that flickered and fizzed out.

There was no need for such chimæras. Before me and behind, like a distinct sound rising from a harmony, soft steps accompanied my own. I was not alone in the void. A person behind found guidance from my shoulders as I, in turn, was steered by a person to whose body I was helplessly clasped And slowly, to the rhythm of our hesitant steps, we shuffled through the nothingness.

But it wasn’t nothing. Our feet had a base.

Time, in its constant measure, was deceptive, turned in on itself. I counted - two, three, four – as doubts tugged on each confused notion of eternities and moments and all degrees between. Had I been tallying seconds or the passing of hours?

“Hello?” I had a voice. A wistful cry for comfort to nobody in particular.

We continued on our unerring circle through the darkness

[HP]

Fools and children should never see unfinished work.

Why stop there? In fact, I'd go so far as to say, never, ever, ever show any work to ANYONE until you are either (a) as satisfied with it as you're going to get, or (b) on the verge of hitting the delete button and erasing the whole damn caboodle. Or (c) confident that it is constructive criticism that you want, not there-there reassurance. Part of the art of scribbling is learning to self-edit. To develop, as Hemingway so elegantly put it, your own bullshit detector. It's something that comes with much practise. It comes with being absolutely merciless in killing your darlings (that old, oft-used writers' adage); and it comes with developing a hide as thick as John Prescott's noodle, such that you can savage your own words without inflicting any mortal injury to the ego. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, that the ego is the enemy to good writing.

Edit: Might also add never ask for anyone's opinion unless you're willing to risk getting an honest answer. Rarely are such answers given, as people - kind souls that they are - don't like to offend. But if they do honour you with honesty, be sure the fragile ego can take it on the chin without squealing. :wink:

[Stewart]

I'd go so far as to say, never, ever, ever show any work to ANYONE until...

I know. I've just written different versions of this story and I justed wanted to see if what the reaction would be to the writing style. I'm aiming for something surreal, dreamy...

Might also add never ask for anyone's opinion unless you're willing to risk getting an honest answer.

I know this so well. I usually get moaned at on other forums where I offer harsh critiques and I don't like people to bullshit me if they don't like what they say; I'm big, I can take it.

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Johnny-Ace, there were bits of your restructuring that I liked and some of you deletions, in my opinion, enhance the narrative. I'll look into further tailoring this.

[HP]

Oh don't mind me, Blixa - and a thousand pardons for delivering what sounded like a finger-wagging lecture. After all, it's a brave soul who puts up his/her work for public scrutiny. But I really do think you must write to please yourself. That you must learn to recognise when something works and when it doesn't. Know what it is you want to achieve then gun for it. You see, when you seek the opinions of others, you will inevitably get just that - an opinion. Some are useful; some not. It's knowing how to cherry-pick amongst the range of responses that's the knack - and always, there's the needy ego preferring to listen only to those commentators who offer praise, however spurious. And I really do believe that there comes a point where you go it alone. Where you do the very best you can and move on with the rest of the story - never allowing yourself to get too hung up on any one section, especially in that first draft. But the most important part comes a little later, after you've sweated and slaved and redrafted till you're blue in the face and don't know which way is up, anymore. And that is: you put the whole bloody caboodle in a dusty drawer and leave it alone for as long as possible. Don't go near the damn thing for at least a month, if possible and leave it there. Go away and get busy writing something else. Then, after it's begun to curl at the edges and yellow, drag it out of that drawer, and in the full light of day read through swiftly, armed with a highlighter lightly colourng all those passages/phrases/words/commas/whatever that strike you as 'off-the-mark' not pausing until you get to the end. You will be amazed at how easy it is to spot those 'darlings' and put them out of their misery. I always say, it's like going away on holiday for a month: when you arrive home again, for a few minutes, you see you own little nest as others see it - not the old familiar haunt that you know so well, you don't know it at all. Hemingway's thing about developing your own bullshit detector is really the knack of learning to be coldly objective. An invaluable trick to master - and one that so many amateur scribblers find virtually impossible.